


Into the Dark

by swarmsoflizards



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Dark, M/M, Not Endverse, i aint fucking around here, like REALLY dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swarmsoflizards/pseuds/swarmsoflizards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the way the world ends, not with a bang or a whimper, but with zombies breaking down the back door."<br/>-Amanda Hocking, “Hollowland”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A story of survival through incredible odds, love in the most improbable of places, and a bunch of zombie killing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! Take a prologue of this thing I've been working on for a year. It probably won't update for a long time, but I wanted to put it up before the day was over.

The world ended on a Tuesday.

Specifically, the world ended on Tuesday, October 8th, but a Tuesday is a Tuesday. That was the day they woke up in a new world- a world where there were no rules and everything was different.

That was around two years ago. Now it was that fall-ish time of year when the weather couldn’t quite decide if it was actually cold or not, when some trees’ leaves were just starting to turn and others had been bare for a week. It was around midday, and while the sun was high, there was a chill in the air that marked it as being fall.

The roaring fire did little to dispel this chill.

This was likely because Sam and Dean Winchester were standing a few yards back from the fire, seeing as it was fueled by John Winchester’s corpse.

They were quiet as they watched the flames slowly eat up the sheet-wrapped body, respectful. Not that either of them would know what to say, anyway.

It was an hour or so after they had started the pyre when they finally made eye contact with each other, wordlessly agreeing it was time for them to go. The fire blazed on as they turned and walked away, towards the shitty small-town motel they had been squatting in for the past few days.

As they made their way up the stairs to the top floor to collect the stuff they had, the silence remained, neither of them willing to fill it and acknowledge what they had just done, to ask what they would do now.

They quickly gathered their things, not that there was much to gather: two crossbows, a katana, two bottles of water (one full, one half-empty), two flashlights, and a battery-powered lantern they had picked up a couple weeks ago. Everything else they owned was already in the Impala.

They were in a room on the fourth floor of a motel in some barely-there town in Kansas. They had probably passed a sign with the name on it, but they surely had more important things to pay attention to at the time. They hadn’t bothered with many of the precautions they usually did; they hadn’t seen a threat in weeks. The stairs were still intact, though all openings on the main floor but the front door were completely boarded up, presumably by someone else who had decided this would be a good spot to wait out the apocalypse. Whoever they were, they were long gone.

The plan was that they would only be there for a few days, while John went on a run to the next town over, where there was supposedly a small band of survivors, one of them some guy he used to be friendly with, Jim- something. Then they would join up with them for a little while.

That was not how it worked out.

It was four days after he had left when John came back. Apparently just as he found them, one of their own started getting sick. Six hours later, he hid his symptoms astonishingly well. Twelve hours later, he lost it completely. He managed to kill four of the five others, including Jim; It was nighttime, and he and another were on guard duty. None of them even realized he was sick until it was too late. The last shot himself in the head when he realized he got bit.

John evidently thought he was okay. He was almost back to the town when he realized he had a small open cut on his forearm. He had been exposed. When he got back to the hotel he was already exhibiting early symptoms: a fever, a slight headache, decreased rationale. He was fanatic as begged his sons to do it for him, to just shoot him in the head, because he couldn’t do it himself. Neither could Sam. So Dean, ever the faithful son, did it for him.

Then they burned him.

\---

It was only when they were back in the Impala, with their every earthly possession distributed throughout the backseat and trunk, that either of them spoke.

“What now?” Sam asked quietly. Dean just shook his head.

“Should we… Is there anyone we should tell?”

“Who would we tell, Sammy?”

“...Do you think Ellen and Jo are still at the Roadhouse?”

And that’s how they ended up driving for around five hours up into central Nebraska, to find the only other two people on Earth who might give a shit about John Winchester’s death.


End file.
